Four Times Sandor Clegane Died and Once He Didn't
by Unanon
Summary: AU speculative bits on Sandor the Hound Clegane's many deaths. Shameless AU incidence of SandorSansa. Possible Spoilers through AFfC.


Title: **Four Times Sandor Clegane Died and One Time He Didn't. **

Fandom: George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire_

Disclaimers: Not mine, never mine, so sad.

* * *

**Gregor**

Sandor knows better than to ask, so he simply takes the toy from Gregor's room. He tells himself as he plays that he'll be a smart boy - that he'll have it back in place by the time Gregor returns - but he didn't count on his brother arriving home early from his hunt. Empty-handed too, which always puts him in a foul mood. So Sandor does what is his custom when Gregor's temper sends the kitchenmaids running and the castle dogs to cringing beneath the tables. He hides.

He should have known that hiding never works.

He's already beginning to cry when Gregor finds him. Something on the wooden knight snaps when Gregor yanks it away and Sandor feels a tiny bit of satisfaction knowing that no matter how badly he beats him this time Gregor's beautiful toy will still be broken. Gregor doesn't shout at him or swear; he never does, even when someone is trying to fight back. It isn't until Gregor calmly tucks him beneath his arm that Sandor realizes that something is terribly wrong and begins to cry in earnest. Gregor has his arms pinned and try as he might Sandor can't squirm away. He feels the radiant heat of the fire before he sees it, and his sobs turn to screams when Gregor tips him down face-first into the red hot coals at the bottom of the brazier, one large hand in Sandor's hair, pressing down. Something else lands in the coals next to his head and Sandor dimly registers the toy knight and then he doesn't notice anything at all.

Sandor screams and screams for what seems like forever and no one comes. All the world is heat and pain and a rawness in his throat and always, always the press of Gregor's hand. After a while he stops screaming. No one ever comes.

* * *

**King's Landing**

The smoke hangs low, creeping through the streets all the way from Flea Bottom where the shacks and shanties are little more than tinder for the flames to consume. The battle is over, but there are still pockets of fighting throughout the city and the screams of horses and the clash of weaponry mingle with the wailing of the smallfolk. By his count Sandor has killed three men, one of them a knight whose armor had already been so bloodstained that it was almost impossible to make out the three-headed dragon sigil on the breastplate. Not bad for a mere squire.

His own knight died in the first charge; he had been a bad-tempered drunk whose love for whoring was only outweighed by his fondness for using his fists. Sandor doesn't regret his death and he certainly won't miss the cuffs and insults so often sent his direction. Maybe he'd be fortunate enough to enter the service of a better knight next time, one who would look past his face and acknowledge his growing skill with a sword, but somehow Sandor doesn't think he should set his hopes too high.

A half-naked woman runs past, her mouth wide in a silent scream and bleeding from a head wound, and Sandor thinks he should find a place to wait out the fighting. No one is going to miss him until later and there isn't anyone left for him to kill unless he's stupid enough to follow the screams. After a quick glance around the deserted street he ducks into a doorway…only find a pitchfork thrust at his face.

"You won't find what you're wanting here, boy," the woman holding the fork screams. "We've nothing to rob and there'll be no raping done in this house."

Sandor's grip tightens around the hilt of his sword. It would be easy for him to disarm the woman, but he'd rather not frighten her farther when another house would serve as well as this one. "Very well," he says in what he hopes is a soothing tone and he takes a step backward. He doesn't feel the knife in his back until it's being pulled out and plunged between his ribs again. The floor is hard against his knees and he's dimly aware of the large, doughy figure of the man who had hidden behind the door before he is pushed down face first. The blows on his back continue like a series of punches that remind Sandor of too many others and the coppery taste in his mouth is familiar yet strange, thicker in a way that makes breathing a struggle. He can see his hand beside him and he wonders where his sword could have gone. But then a heavy weight comes down and he sees nothing at all.

* * *

**Beric**

Sandor doesn't believe in gods, any gods, not even the bloody foreign ones who see fit to breathe life into dead cowards who fight with flaming swords. The Seven have never had any power that he's seen, and this Myrrish lord of light may manage to bring back the dead, but Dondarrion doesn't look like he was enjoying himself all that much. The lightning lord still fought well though, despite his missing bits, and there's a moment after his shield takes fire that Sandor can't help but wonder if maybe there's something to this whole trial by combat thing after all. The Lannister sins the outlaws tried to lay at his feet aren't his, to be sure, but the wolf-girl's accusation rang true. He'd struck down that boy without remorse, others too.

The worse sins are the ones they don't know, the ones they can't see when they look only at the Hound. They can't know about his hatred for Gregor, not completely, even though some of them probably suspect that he's slain his brother a thousand times over in his heart. And they don't know how he'd simply stood and watched as they beat the little bird, doing nothing to prevent the blows or to make things easier for her. They don't know about the song he'd stolen.

But gods might, and even if they didn't exist his opponent sure as seven hells believes in them. Maybe even believes enough to mete out a justice Sandor isn't sure he deserves.

Another blow from Beric's sword takes part of his shield with it and Sandor feels the flames begin to lick at his arm. There is fire at his heels as well and it's enough to make the part of him that fears take hold. He strikes at Dondarrion wildly, almost blindly as he tries to remove the small inferno his shield has become, and he leaves himself open for just a moment.

A moment is enough.

* * *

**Arya**

Sandor hopes he's taught her well. "Do you know where the heart is?" he asks.

She does.

* * *

**Sansa**

_"I'm going to kill him,"_ Sansa thinks as she hurries up stairs and down corridors. _"I'm going to draw his own bloody sword right from his scabbard and hack at him with it until he's nothing but tiny pieces for the crows to pick at. How dare he do something so foolish? How dare he?!" _ She quickens her pace, raising her skirts so she can run all the faster, heedless of the looks her ankles get from those she passes. By the time she arrives at the correct chamber she is flushed from the exertion and the small hairs that frame her face are curling in a manner that would be quite charming were her expression not so hostile.

Maester Childress looks up when she throws open the door and moves to intervene. "My Lady," he says in a nervous manner, links jingling as he backpedals before her march toward the bed. "It would be better if you calmed yourself before coming in. He needs rest..."

"I am calm." Sansa hisses and stops to look at the maester. "How grave is the wound? Is he in much pain? Have you administered any sweetsleep?"

"I'm fine," Sandor's rasp from beyond the bedcurtains seems a little weaker than normal to Sansa, but the amusement she hears in his tone is infuriatingly familiar. "It's a mere scratch, nothing more."

She yanks back the curtain and frowns down at him. He's paler than she'd like, and the blood seeping through the cloths binding his shoulder almost makes her dizzy to look upon, but otherwise he seems to be quite well indeed. "You are a foolish, foolish man, Sandor Clegane." She sits down on the edge of the bed, her anger fading, but not quite evaporated entirely. "Practice yards are for wooden swords, not steel!"

Sandor attempts to look sheepish and vaguely apologetic, but his chest is too full of pride for him to really pull it off gracefully. "I only did what Aunt Arya said!" their son pipes tearfully from where he is huddled on Sansa's pillow. "I stuck him with the pointy end!"

* * *

_fin_


End file.
